


World Enough and Time

by zacian



Category: Pocket Monsters | Pokemon (Main Video Game Series), Pocket Monsters: Sword & Shield | Pokemon Sword & Shield Versions
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, F/M, Fate & Destiny, Minor Injuries, Mutual Pining, Pokemon Journey, hop has impostor syndrome and gloria can't talk about her feelings, or the deconstruction of them, the usual fare for these two
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-13
Updated: 2021-01-13
Packaged: 2021-03-17 01:20:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,135
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28716408
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zacian/pseuds/zacian
Summary: Wherever Hop goes, Gloria follows, trailing him into the Slumbering Weald, into the fray, into every path he blazes. It isn’t until she’s halfway to victory that he realizes she’s been giving chase.
Relationships: Hop/Yuuri | Gloria
Comments: 15
Kudos: 34





	World Enough and Time

**Author's Note:**

> i haven't written for this ship in a loooong time but i still adore them and i got this idea in my head a while back and couldn't rest until i wrote it. mostly i wanted an excuse to write 1) a bit of sweet sweet postwick angst and 2) gloria being a jock lmao. hope you enjoy!!

Hop meets Gloria when he’s too young to remember it. Their families have history as rich as the soil he learns to till when he’s old enough.

Gloria lags after him, scattering seeds with a carelessness that he’s sure isn’t learned. Her mother was a farmer before she was a Trainer, and her mother before her, and the generations past them in this village and in the Crown. She’s got some catching up to do, so she busies her hands till they roughen with callouses.

Eventually, she learns to grow by watching him. She learns a lot of things by watching him. His family has worked this land and the land before it, some time ago across the sea, and they all know how to turn the fertile loam and reap the fruits of their labor.

Those fruits fatten and ripen on the day Leon doesn’t come home. He doesn’t come home the next day, or the next week, and then months pass and Lee’s still gone but their mother returns with paperwork and shiny things, breezing past the lesser of her sons. Hop learns to sit with the loneliness, tuning out the bustle of his family around him as he goes unnoticed with his eyes fixed on the screen.

He realizes that Gloria is just as lonely and as listless as he is when she comes and joins him in watching his brother and his Charizard work their magic. Their house has an extra story now. Gloria gasps like she’s never seen anything like it.

They tend to the fields in their spare time, the way all children sown here do, but Hop is already elsewhere, plotting out what lies beyond the glen for him.

* * *

She decides, of course, that she’ll come with him.

“Haven’t got much else to do,” she says, shaking bits of dried mud from her dress, “and ‘sides, we’ve done everything together, you and me.”

“You mean it, then?” He’s still too young to go, still growing into his own body, but he itches for it. He wants to see his brother again. “Oh, Gloria, I’d like nothing better.”

Little Wooloo bumps his head against Gloria’s bruised and bandaged leg. She leans down and scratches behind his ear. “Sure. Just know I won’t be going easy on you.”

He shakes his head, grinning. “Fair enough. I won’t be going easy on you, either.”

* * *

The first Pokémon she gets, on the smooth pavement of his garden where they mimed mock battles in their youth, is a Grookey. She chitters and scrambles up Gloria’s arm and it’s settled then and there.

“Jasmine?” Hop echoes when Gloria is pressed to give her a name. “Nice one! She’ll make a fine companion. Then I’ll go with...you! Sobble!” His brother will be taking Scorbunny, no doubt, and Hop has to be prepared for when the inevitable happens.

Two-on-one isn’t exactly fair, but he has faith in her ability to meet him toe-to-toe, and sure enough Gloria scrapes by and all but knocks Hop off his feet. When it’s over, quick and dirty, Jasmine bounds around her Trainer’s ankles and screeches her excitement at their very first win. Gloria bends over to scoop the Pokémon up and holds her to her chest.

_Beginner’s luck,_ Hop thinks, but he won’t say as much out loud because Gloria’s smile is like the strike of a match and it warms him, faintly, from the inside.

* * *

Hop is the favorite to win. He knows when he checks his phone and sees the headlines and the comments in every forum and hears the gossip float down Motostoke with the steam, a story told in excited fragments: _brother_ and _Postwick_ and _match of the century_. He knows when the crowd starts chanting in the stadium and the cheers get louder with each successive Gym Badge.

Gloria isn’t on their radar at first. She’s not pretty and not very smart, a dull girl with bright eyes and not much else going for her, but there’s a spark to her battle style that ignites a firestorm soon enough. If she’s good at one thing, it’s putting up a fight. She does it off the pitch too, and _that_ puts her on people’s radar to be sure. She doesn’t duck her head from the cameras like some of the other Gym Challengers; she throws questions back in reporters’ faces and gloats over her well-earned wins, shoulders her irreverence like it’s a piece of her. _Rude_ is what they call her at first, but that’s not quite it. Hop knows her better than that.

“That friend of yours is strong,” the cameraman says as he shells out Hop’s earnings, “but man, is she a nasty piece of work.”

_Don’t talk about her like that,_ Hop wants to say, but the sentiment is trounced out by _What’s any of this got to do with Gloria?_

“She’s something else, all right,” Hop says, pocketing the money. “Not sure I’d quite word it that way, though, mate.”

“ _I_ would,” laughs the cameraman’s companion, the reporter with glossy blonde hair and glossy pink lips. “Did you see the way she took down Kabu like it was _nothing?_ I’d watch out if I were you. Keep your friends close, and all that.”

Hop frowns and stuffs his hands into his jogger pockets. The reporter offers up her mic and Hop offers up something generic and uninsightful about rivalries before heading forward on the trail.

When night comes, something new is trending on social media. It’s Gloria: her face, her words—brash and true—and a cheap, sensationalist headline unscrolled like prophecy:

_Postwick’s Unsung Underdog: Could She Be Coming For The Throne?_

Not if Hop has anything to say about it.

* * *

Somewhere between the Wild Area and Stow-on-Side, a boy with a smug smile and dire reasons beats him beautifully and kicks him while he’s down. Hop doesn’t mean to go whimpering to Gloria, but she’s his best friend and they’ve got a common enemy, or so he thinks.

She’s won against Bede—twice, to be exact. Hop tries to make himself appear unfazed at the whole ordeal, but if she can sense the agitation simmering beneath all his shrugs, she makes no indication of it.

She reassures him as nonchalantly as she talks to him about all things. “Don’t bother with Bede. I wiped the floor with that waster. He’s got no idea what he’s talking about.”

The revelation makes things even worse. Hop challenges her as boldly as he ever did, but he feels his stomach tighten as he lays fingers over a Poké Ball.

She finds him, later, sat in the cliffs of the Giant’s Mirror, stewing sabzi over his campfire and stewing with it. He doesn’t offer much in the way of greeting as she slings her bag over her shoulder, drops it noisily and sighs like she’s just shed an awful weight. This is a line she’s crossed more than once. It’s the quiet blurring of the boundary between argument and acceptance that comes with being friends for so long.

“So,” she says, sitting and sprawling her legs out over a makeshift seat, “you feeling any better?”

Hop rolls a cardamom pod between his fingers, squeezing the delicate shell just lightly enough not to crush it. “A little. Have you come for some practice?” He keeps his tone even, half-joking, like he’s afraid of whatever emotion lies just beneath the surface.

She leans over with a familiar overreaching, snags a bit of roti from his plate on the table and thumbs it into her mouth. “Nope. Just came by to chew the fat.”

“And because you’re hungry.”

“And because I’m hungry. And because I wanted to see you, Hop.” She rests her elbows on her knees and sits forward. He can see a long day’s fatigue in her sallow features, etched out by the encroaching dusk. “Can’t I come say hi to my best friend once in a while? Why’s everything got to be about battles and rivalries?”

“I thought you liked both of those things.” He stirs the mixture in his pot lightly, watching it bubble.

“I _do_. ‘Course I do. Just I thought you’d remember we’re more than rivals.” Whatever she’d meant to imply, it wasn’t quite the thought that dawns on her in the next moment, making her cheeks flush as she hurriedly tears off another piece of roti. “I mean, we were friends long before we were ever rivals. And friends don’t let friends get so caught up in a load of nonsense they forget who they are.”

He looks at her, turning his attention fully from his cooking for the first time. “I don’t know what you mean.”

“You’re not your brother, Hop, and I’m tired of you acting like you’ve got to be him. All that stuff about dragging his name through the mud, but I’ve seen the things people say about you, wanting you to make it to Wyndon and all. They love you.”

“That’s ‘cause they want to see me face off against Lee. You know that’s it, and that’s what I’ve got to do, but I can’t if I’m too weak to even measure up to my rival.”

Whatever firelight was left in her sunken eyes is snuffed out in an instant, leaving only smoke, dark and thick. “So that’s the problem, is it. Your stepping stone is proving to be more of an obstacle than you thought she’d be.”

“No, that’s not—look, I didn’t mean it like that.” He sighs. “I’ve just got to get it together, but my head’s a bit of a mess right now.”

“You’d have an easier time with that if you just dropped all this rubbish with Lee and Bede and thinking you’re tied to your brother like a Boltund to its lead.” Gloria is thick-skinned and does not bruise easily, but there’s a certain hurt in the way she implores him, her voice coming through from far away like she’s trying to shake him awake. 

But Hop is already elsewhere, just as he was in the fields of Postwick dreaming of something bigger than himself. There is no stopping him once he gets going, plodding ahead with a singular obsession. “I can’t, Gloria. I’m sorry. Not when I’m this close.”

She looks poised to give him more of a fight, but the night is shadowing down through the hills and she has no patience for him when she’s this tired. “Right, then,” she huffs, standing and shaking her legs out. “You wanna mope around, fine. That’s your pejorative.”

“ _Prerogative_.”

“That’s what I said.” She picks her bag up and tosses it onto her back. “But I’ll tell you one thing—I’m not in the business of coddling folk. Not you, not that punk from Spikemuth who pouts all nice when she loses.”

A low, growing frustration flickers up from his chest like the embers of coals poked at and prodded. “I know you’re not. I’m not _asking_ you to.” He inhales deeply and the campfire smoke scorches his lungs. “I just need to build my team, train my Pokémon—if you’d just give me some _time_.”

The look she gives him is thin and watery, a slope of the brows and jut of the lip somewhere between indignation and pity. She does not give up easily, but something tells him even she has her limits. “Sure. We’ve got time, haven’t we? Second chance, or third, or fourth. We’ll keep fighting, you and me. That’s what rivals do.”

She takes a piece of roti as she goes like she’s claiming the spoils of a brutal win. He doesn’t stop her. When he returns to the pot, the food has burned and boiled over down the sides of it, and he goes to bed with two things gnawing at his belly.

* * *

Gloria wins against him like she’s kicking dust off her boots. There is no ritual to it, no pomp or buildup or ceremony. It happens the way things come to pass in Postwick, quietly and day by day.

Sonia picks up on the third ring. She doesn’t ask why Hop is calling; chances are she knows because he’s retreading her steps somehow, bound to the cruel puppetry of history.

“My advice,” she says, looking and sounding as exhausted as him, “would be to quit while you’re ahead. But my advice has got me exactly nowhere in life, Hop, and you’re better than that.” 

She is more sister than friend. Neither of them bothers with the formalities of saying it out loud.

“If I were better than that, I wouldn’t be resigned to this fate in the first place.”

She gives him a nurturing smile. “Your fate,” she says, “is exactly what you make it. And I think you can make something greater than you might think.”

She imparts more wisdom to him over a plate of food (her treat), and he listens like he used to when they were the only two left behind in the shire.

* * *

Hop is the favorite to the very end, the cheers crooning high and fast like they’re strung along to his racing pulse. His name is sung over Gloria’s even when she beats his team down and amps her theatrics up for all the ravenous eyes.

Here she’d been chaperoning his dream, shepherding him towards it, and all the while he’d failed to realize she had dreams of her own. The race, somewhere, had turned into a hunt.

She rounds on him like a beast with teeth, snapping a grin out in time with the click of a Poké Ball. “This match will be one for the ages,” she says over the din. “I hope you’re ready, Hop, because I’m not about to hold back.”

If he can be sure of one thing, it’s that. “Of course,” he answers, a time-honored call and response. “I’m not about to let you win so easily.”

The claws come out, the hackles rise and Hop begins to feel not unlike a Wooloo separated from its flock. Every attack pushes him further than the last until he’s well and truly cornered, scrabbling for a foothold, his Dubwool and Corviknight and Pincurchin falling as she stalks evenly towards the finishing blow.

And then Inteleon goes down weeping to her dear Jasmine and Hop doesn’t have time to mourn. He twitches and bites back a curse, letting his hands ball into fists and then fall heavy at his sides.

Gloria breathes in and out, eyes blazing. Hop’s chest rises and falls in time with hers. The stadium holds its breath for a moment, a hush falling over the crowds like the choke of fog, and then her name rings as fully and as clearly as if they’d been chanting it the whole time.

If it had to be anyone, it was her. It was always her. She welcomes the rush of it all, lifting her arms like the effigy of great royalty.

They shake hands the way rivals do. She doesn’t linger on it when something electric sparks between their palms, but she holds his gaze as he thanks her and congratulates her with all the voice he has left. Admitting defeat is real strength, but it comes strangely effortlessly this time around.

“Thanks, Hop,” she echoes, in a gentle timbre that she reserves only for him, only under the ripple of other voices where no one can hear them. “I mean it.”

She does not say things she does not mean. He knows her well enough to know this.

In the muffled thrum of the locker room, he packs his duffel bag, listens to the undying mantra of her name, and tries not to wonder why it doesn’t sting as much as he’d thought it would.

* * *

The world nears its end and something bursts free that’s been lying dormant for too long.

They cradle a knowledge between them that no one else has. It’s the only thing Hop can think of: the Slumbering Weald and the secrets they pried from it before they could understand.

Something massive and not of this planet unhinges vicious jaws to swallow them whole; something even more preternatural protects them. The shield falls into Hop’s hands as if guided. He traces the age-old edges with an awestruck respect.

There are two. There were always two. It is known now and seems so obvious in hindsight that they could never be separated, not two halves of a whole but two souls working in tandem.

The world nears its end and Gloria, unafraid and unrelenting, brandishes the sharp blade of her valor and charges ahead with the pride of a heroine.

Fear has no home here. There is nothing they can’t do together.

He reaches over and takes her hand.

* * *

Gloria wins the Championship as she wins most things, firing on all cylinders. It is a close battle and a good one, _match of the century_ indeed, and it builds and builds until it all comes crashing down in the most spectacular way. His brother falls from grace with the most dignity he’s ever seen. Hop cheers for Gloria now, only her, and when his new dream comes true he is the loudest of them all.

It isn’t Gloria that he runs into in the lobby at first. It’s Leon, and he hasn’t got anywhere to be tomorrow or the next day or the next. Leon is not unbeatable. His lip quivers as he smiles but his eyes, brassy like Hop’s own, shine with a joy he can’t remember seeing.

His brother hugs him, and Hop cries.

* * *

They meet in the Weald like they might meet in a dream. Something compels them both there, something older than them and in their bones. He comes here to think. Gloria comes, he believes, to forget.

She has one of the wolves, as he knows. It put up a terrible fight, she says, but she handled it well enough. She is the less fortunate of the two.

“Just seemed so easy, the way you tamed that thing.” _Thing_ is what she calls it, but there’s no malice and no trepidation in the word, just a quiet reverence. Whether she’s matured or had the carelessness beaten out of her by trauma, Hop isn’t sure. “As for me—well, see for yourself.” 

And she yanks up the sleeve of her jumper, flaunting the glistening scar on her inner arm like it’s a still-healing tattoo. It’s not brand new but it is fresh, tightly pinched skin bunching over the broken nerves and burst veins from the crook of her elbow all the way down near her wrist.

Hop winces. The tooth marks drag indents in a circle on the canvas of her fair skin. They curl and flare like the raised embroidery of ink stitched into tendon.

“Gloria, that’s awful!” he says. “I didn’t know it left a mark that big!”

“I’m glad this is all it left.” She sniffs, tilting her head up like it’s all no big deal, like she’s weathered worse. “Think it was going easy on me, for whatever reason. Huge, mighty beast like that could’ve taken my whole arm off if it wanted to, or worse. I reckon it was just testing me.”

He is far off from whatever philosophy haunts her right now. “Is that what you think?”

“It is. But Zamazenta _chose_ you, and I think I can see why.” Her voice is heavy but not somber. It’s more pensive than anything, weighed down by a thoughtfulness he has not seen or heard in her till now. “I would have, too, if I were in its place.”

She stands a good arm’s length from him and doesn’t move, just looks at him and lets the implications teeter between them like the fine walk of a tightrope.

The twine bends and trembles but doesn’t give. Hop does his best impression of a smile.

“Hah, yeah, you reckon? I don’t know, mate, I’m sure it would’ve chosen any Trainer that came its way. I think you give me too much credit.”

“I think you don’t give yourself enough.”

“Oh, come on, Gloria. I was just lucky.”

“ _Hop_.” There’s an earth-moving tiredness in her voice, droning as she hangs her head in the last, bitter throes before resignation. “Look at me. I’m a good few stone of muscle, I’ve got a quicker hand when it comes to battling and catching Pokémon than most anyone in the region if my record is anything to go by, and look what I’ve got to show for it.” Again she pins up her sleeve. This time she squeezes the mess of skin, and what’s left of it, between her fingers, and Hop cringes like he can feel it too, tethered as he is to her.

“I’ve no clue if it’s luck, or worthiness, or whatever you wanna call it.” She squares her shoulders, hefting her bag up against her back like she’s guarding herself away. “All I know is there’s something about you, and you should hold yourself in higher regard, Legendary Pokémon or no. That’s all. I’ve known you my whole life and then some, ‘least that’s how it feels, and I just think you’re...really something.”

She looks up at him, eyes chasing stubbornly after something she is too proud or too vulnerable to ask for, but Hop can’t meet her halfway as things are now. She is long gone, glancing past something he’s been struggling all his life to reach. She is worthy of something far more profound than what he has to offer. His chest aches a little at the warmth in her eyes, the homely red-brown like the drawling of a lightly stoked fire and the tortured sincerity it glows outward. 

The thread between them strains and stretches tight and then it snaps, gone like mist dissipates under high noon light.

“High praise coming from you.” His mouth’s so dry when he cracks a grin that his lips stick to his gums. “I’m not sure about all that, but I think you’re really something too,” he says, and in a strange haste he tacks on a ‘mate,’ lamely, and Gloria draws the bag so close it digs into her shoulders.

“Yeah, Hop. Yeah, I know you do.” She’s never been one to dwell on things, not like him. She lets the distance linger for a moment, and then she bridges it to pat him good and hard on the shoulder with her bad arm in one last show of strength. “Take good care of Zamazenta. I know it’ll take care of you, seeing as you two are bound together now.”

He says something like that to her in kind, like he’s rehearsed something far more meaningful but the words are lost to him now, gone with the gashes scripted down her forearm.

And then she meanders off, sloshing up rainwater and slick litterfall with her too-big boots, oddly slow in her movement like she’s waiting on him to come after her, flag her down or run straight ahead and beat her to the punch. If he thought he still had a chance at winning, in any way that really mattered, he would. Instead he slips his fingers up the sleeve of his undershirt as he watches her disappear, touches at the nicks and bruises along his own arm, and wonders.

* * *

Sonia keeps his hands and his head busy for the time being, piling the readings and the assignments high, but there are only so many things she can teach him.

He sees Gloria on the telly now, and she's smiling like she's always been there. She's smiling but something isn't quite right about it, a twin flame missing from her wildfire eyes.

Zamazenta sleeps shallowly beside him, rust ribs rising and falling. Zamazenta spends a lot of its time sleeping. He thinks it must feel alone, taken from its partner so suddenly. They can hear each other’s howls from across the many hills.

Sonia agrees with his theory, smiling sadly. She lays a hand over top of his, takes the books from him without a word, and turns a blind eye as he leaves with Zamazenta at his heel.

* * *

Gloria finds him in the Dappled Grove like she’s been searching, hones in on his tent like it’s the only oasis.

This time she’s got nothing to say. She sits cross-legged by the fire he’s keeping alive and warms her palms.

She doesn’t need to ask why he’s awake in this late, late hour of the night. He doesn’t need to ask why she’s come looking for him, or how she knew where he’d be.

They sit under the canopy of tree branches and constellations, the many crisscrosses like train tracks and paths meeting and intersecting and trailing off. When Hop speaks, the world is quiet.

“The scar,” he says. It is the only thing he can think to say. There are many along her person: old welts that never healed and scrapes from long ago, but she must know which one he means. “Is it still there?”

She nods. “I reckon it might just be there forever.”

_Forever_ sounds weighty coming from her, like she’s been turning it over on her tongue for some time. Hop thinks about what forever might mean, for them and them alone, with their legend carved into the face of Galar like lines carved into stone and woven into tapestry and braided into their journey as something ancient and foretold.

There is no way of telling whether it is more than skin deep, or truly forever. Time can tell some things; other things are lost to it. What they have is right now, and right now Gloria is taking root beside him though he can see how badly she wants to take off again.

Again she pulls up her sleeve, shows the now-faded but still very visible mark of her legend. _Our legend,_ Hop thinks with a thrill of stupid, boyish excitement.

Then she lets her sleeve drop and palms his arm, grips it with a confused tenderness that’s mirrored in her eyes, the wilting brown bracken of a girl who is not scared by anything but this. She burns hot like oil under the gaze of millions, rises and roars against monsters and men, but here, in the golden hour of a boy she knows like memory, she flinches inward as if singed.

This steadfast, sturdy girl of mortar and earth, Galar’s up-and-coming queen, looks about ready to crumble into dust. She swallows what might be nerves, might be her version of anxiety.

It is his turn to reassure her, but he is rubbish even at that.

“Gloria,” he babbles, “I don’t—I mean, I’m not sure if the legends were really ever about us, or if Sonia was right about all that stuff she said about me being a hero, or any of it—I don’t know—and I’m not—I’m not—” With his free hand he scratches at his hair, runs fingers up the back of his neck almost compulsively, rubs helplessly at his face with the ball of his palm.

But there is nothing he can say that will convince her when her mind is made up—she is bullheaded like that. “I don’t care about any of it,” she says. “Hop, listen to me for once. Have you ever stopped to think about how I might feel?” Her words waver with the weight of her conviction. She is nothing if not sure. “It wasn’t pity that made me say all those things to you in the Weald before. Hop, it was never pity.”

He might have known, despite himself. Something comes together between them that’s been dancing around itself for the longest time. She bites the inside of her cheek like she’s searching for something to say.

When she can find nothing, she drums a question for him with her fingers on the crease of his shirt sleeve, and his answer surfaces in the quickening of his pulse—

—and she moves in like she’s meeting him frantic on the pitch, only there’s no one but them and it’s odd when the only sound is the blood in his ears and the brief clack of teeth because they’ve never done this before with anyone. Her lips are cold and her hand holds fast to his arm, but when she pulls away her pallor betrays her in the dusting of red along her cheeks and nose.

He wants to speak first but she snatches the opportunity like she steals most victories from him.

“I’m a bit mad about you.” She says it like she’s bracing herself, but the intonation is low and soft, the sweet pattering of rain on the roof of one’s tent. “Thought it might be obvious. Figured it was.”

She does not know many things, this shire girl, but she’s right about this if nothing else. Hop is perceptive, _smart_ , smarter than he lets on or lets himself believe, and she’s aware of just how much he picks up on. How it must have hurt her, then, that he knew and would do nothing about it.

He finds the courage now. “You’re not good at hiding most things,” he says, and she snorts out a laugh. “I don’t suppose I’m very good at it either.”

She grins, tapping the point on his wrist where his pulse is only just beginning to slow, and he laughs too before they fall silent again. 

The world flickers in sepia around them like the crackle of the lonely fire, the slow but forward-marching passage of time. Somewhere behind them, they are children weaving their way between the wooden fences and their parents’ legs. Somewhere ahead, they are stronger together in a way they weren’t before. But here, now, they are coming to an understanding that is known only to them, a sacred and secret unraveling.

She holds his gaze for exactly a moment before leaning her head into his chest, exhaling into the wool that envelops them both.

It’s a gesture they’ve shared countless times before, a kind and simple embrace, but it is different now. There’s a gap between them that may never fill. Even still, when she digs her fingers into the thick spine of his coat like he is her only lifeline, her only shelter, he brings his arms to her back and hugs her close. It is instinct to him, muscle memory. 

When dawn rears its violet head in the valley, they will pick up their things and go back to Postwick. 

In the here and now, they are adrift in the unfettered cusp of the wild, cast far down from any storied castle walls or soothsaying in the village.

They take the long way home.

**Author's Note:**

> thanks for reading!


End file.
